What Does It Mean When You Glow Red?
by FrankieSunflower
Summary: Thorin gets separated from the group in Mirkwood, and finds himself with an unexpected companion: Sting. Read the book if you want to know why and how Thorin got separated from the group. Hints of Bagginshield. NOT OC.
1. See No Evil

Thorin peered into the encroaching shadows, stars still dancing in his vision from the abruptly vanished firelight. In the previous scuffle the first time they confronted the elvish revellers, the company had eventually been able to find one another. Thorin wondered if their second plan, for him to go first so as not to surprise the elves into running away, might have been foolish. It would not shock him if the whole thing had been a scheme by the blasted creatures to draw them off the path, hungry and desperate as they were, and then separate them.

So here he was, stumbling in the pitch-black, calling out Dwalin's and Balin's, Fili's and Kili's and Bilbo's names in succession, to no avail. There was no answer, no sound to indicate he was anything other than hopelessly alone, and helplessly lost. He had no way of knowing if his fellows were safe, or even alive. As far as he could tell, they were far away, way out of earshot.

Standing still would do no good. Sitting on the ground and hoping someone might stumble across him in the dark would do no good. So Thorin turned until he had what he felt might be the right direction, and began to walk.

It slowly and ominously occurred to him as he trudged along that something was wrong. The forest was as forbidding as it had been since they stepped in, and he had the same conflicting feelings of being both utterly alone and also followed by thousands of eyes, but this was something else. Something new, or changed. Something in the weight of his own step.

Thorin checked to make sure he had his axe. It was there. His heavy coat, his belt, even the light but assuring weight of the key around his neck, all was where and as it should be.

Except for the sword.

Thorin stopped dead still as he drew what should have been Orcrist. It wasn't. The scabbard and the hilt were the wrong shape and width, and Thorin was dumbfounded as to how he could have failed to notice up until now. At the very most, it could only be half Orcrist's size. He must have picked up the wrong weapon the first time they tried to talk to the elves. What and who's was this sword then, if it wasn't Orcrist? A dagger, rather than a sword. Well-made, but not dwarf-made. He had no way of having acquired it from one of the elves, they had all vanished as soon as he stepped in amongst them. He couldn't recall any of the dwarves in the company carrying such a weapon. He ran his fingers over the flat of the blade. Odd. The smooth swirling pattern on the blade was the same as Orcrist's, but …

Oh. He couldn't recall any of the dwarves in the company carrying such a weapon, because no other dwarf in the company _did_ carry such a weapon. But Bilbo did.

This was Bilbo's sword.

Thorin sat down, exasperated, and rubbed a hand over his face. He had fought with small swords before. Angry as he was for having lost Orcrist and picked up this tiny dagger, that wasn't a problem. If he was confronted by a denizen of the forest, he would be able to defend himself. But if Bilbo hadn't picked up Orcrist when Thorin picked up … whatever this toothpick was called, then Bilbo was weaponless. And even if Bilbo did pick up Orcrist, it was considerably heavier than his own sword, and not double-edged. He had seen the way Bilbo swung that small sword about when he had come rushing to Thorin's defence, what felt like so many months ago. He doubted Bilbo was capable of wielding any weapon properly, let alone Orcrist.

Thorin pushed the thought to the back of his mind. He would find the others, or at least try, and they would sort out the business then. He stood and continued to walk, now even more troubled than before, which was quite frankly extremely troubled, so much so that he did not notice in time when the ground began to give way. A soft rotted plank of wood gave way under his foot, and he tumbled head-first and rolled down a decline covered in dead leaves and dotted sparsely with roots and thin trees. He tried to grab at the skinny branches, but he either missed or they came off in his hand. When he saw what was at the bottom of the decline, Thorin tried to claw his way to a stop, but not quickly enough. He hit the water, and half a second later, Bilbo's sword thudded along the decline after him and landed on his face.

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**AUTHOR'S NOTE**: I have no idea if Thorin lost his axe in the goblin's cave, so I included it here just in case.


	2. Hear No Evil

_There are many kinds of magic in the forest_, Thorin heard, _but I wasn't expecting this_.

Thorin sat bolt upright, kicking and scrambling his way out of the water. He stared around, eyes wide and hands out at his sides. He could feel his axe. But not the dagger.

'Who are you?' he called. 'I can hear you.' If he sounded angry and threatening, he could only blame it on the suddenness of having woken in the river, in the dark, and not knowing how long he had been asleep. He did not want to end up like Bombur.

But this river wasn't black. Nor was it as wide. Thorin felt around and his hand met the empty scabbard of Bilbo's dagger at his side. The voice was momentarily silent. Then, almost bell-like, like the sound of light itself,

_I'm down here_.

Thorin quickly felt the ground near the river, and could not find the dagger. Neither could he pinpoint the location of the strange voice. He could deal with only his axe if the source of the voice was unfriendly, but the dagger was Bilbo's and he wanted it more than he needed it.

'Show yourself,' he called, this time not caring if he sounded demanding. He kept surreptitiously searching as he looked futilely about for any sign of where the voice was coming from, and cursed the dratted toothpick under his breath.

_There's no need for that_, the voice came again, irritable and snappish. _I managed to follow the Halfling down a bloody mineshaft, but I don't even belong to you. What do you expect_?

Thorin paused, mildly confused. 'Who are you?' he asked again. Then, when he got no reply, he grunted. 'Show yourself.'

_I'm not supposed to do this unless there are evil things about_, the voice grumbled. _But fine. You need a map to find your own bloody mountain, I can humour you. I suppose I don't care to be lost down here forever_.

Thorin's eye was caught by a glow rising up from the shallows of the river. Half-submerged was the shining blue blade of Bilbo's dagger.

_Well? I won't rust, but that doesn't mean I like it down here_.

Thorin grabbed the dagger and with it in one hand and his axe in the other, he spun around, pointing both blades into the dark.

_Not so rough_, the voice complained. _I'm not used to being handled like this. The Halfling was much gentler with me, and he's never even used a sword before. He said so himself_.

Thorin paused. His piercing gaze turned from the impenetrably dark branches and trunks, to the slowly fading dagger in his hand.

_Oh_, the voice drawled. _Finished the jigsaw, have you? Yes, you lout, it's me. And I'm as baffled as you are._

Thorin lifted the dagger closer to his face, then held it at arm's length, unsure.

'Why … are you talking to me?'

_I'm asking myself the same question_.

Thorin hesitated. Should he place the sword back in its sheath? If not, what to do with it? Why _was_ it talking to him?

'The water,' he said slowly. 'Something in the river makes you speak.'

_I make me speak_, the voice snapped. _The water makes you hear me_.

'Have a lot to say, do you?' Thorin replied, growing slowly but surely irritated with the dagger's tone. He wondered if it talked like this to Bilbo, and what it said when it couldn't be heard. Not that it seemed to have any qualms about whether or not it was heard at all, going by the rudeness.

_You would be surprised what a weapon has to say_, the voice said haughtily. _You soft bleeding creatures with your knives and your hammers and mattocks and axes. You throw us about in battle and we defend you, kill for you, and you think of us as silent tools. Well, not all of us, my good dwarf. Some of us were made with love and care and magic enough to give us life, and where there is life, there is a voice_.

Thorin nodded obliquely in what could be interpreted as admittance of some sort. He hoped silently that Bilbo's sword wasn't as much of a chatterbox as it appeared to be.

He could only see far enough ahead to find the place where he fell, but there was no way of seeing the top, or how far he had fallen. As he tried to find a way to climb back up to where had been before he fell, however, he grew curious.

'Orcrist?' he murmured. 'Surely if you have a voice, my sword does too.'

_Oh, the Goblin-cleaver_, the voice said, unexpectedly excited. _Yes. We were all forged in Gondolin at around the same time, the three of us, Glamdring the Foe-hammer included. For the Goblin Wars. But Orcrist was forged first. I remember when that sword was nameless. Like me._

There was a moment's hesitation. Thorin wondered if he should speak. Did swords have feelings about whether or not they had names? It seemed a ridiculous thing to think about, but now that he was holding a potentially very emotional dagger on which he may rely on to save his life in the near future, he was inclined to be careful.

'We are also named by our deeds,' Thorin said quietly. 'That is why I am called Oakenshield.'

_I know_, the voice replied. There was a brief and strained silence. Thorin carefully, awkwardly sheathed the dagger and searched for a foothold among the leaf litter.


	3. Speak No Evil

The climbing was slow going. The first few times he slipped and rolled down to the bottom to start over again, Thorin fought the overwhelming urge to use Bilbo's dagger as a climbing tool. It was, as he had unhappily suspected, talkative. Once he passed what he felt was the halfway point, the skinny trees grew numerous and closer together. Thorin wondered how he hadn't hit them all on the way down. Perhaps he had. It was too dark to see if he had any bruises.

Once he reached the top, fed-up and too tired to listen to Bilbo's dagger's complaints about being used as a climbing implement, Thorin put the hilt sideways between his teeth and pulled himself up onto the semi-flat platform just above where he had fallen, and lay there panting with relief.

_It was worse in Trollshaw Forest in that smelly cave, but not by much, dwarf. Not By Much_.

Thorin removed the dagger from between his jaws and lay it semi-apologetically across his knees once he was sitting up, safely away from the edge.

He began walking only a few moments after regaining his breath. He was too wary to stay in one place for too long. He had promised himself he wouldn't encourage the dagger to speak, but it was difficult. It had spent so much time just hanging at Bilbo's side, and had been present at almost every important moment of their acquaintance, save the first meeting and initial weeks, during which there had been largely silent animosity. He wanted to know more about Bilbo.

'What sort of fighter is he, really?' Thorin asked. 'He ran to my defence without hesitation. Surely he must have had some confidence in his own abilities.'

The dagger chuckled - a fierce and strange sound, as if it came from the very tip of the blade - and Thorin scowled. _It was not confidence that made him rush to your aid_, the dagger said fondly. _I shout instructions at him even though I know it is of no use. Even if he could hear me, it would only distract him. Your hobbit sorely needs practice. _Here, the dagger seemed to sigh. _But every now and again he will do something which surprises me, and I find I like him a lot better than any young man or elf, or dwarf_.

Thorin gave the hilt a light smack.

_I do not seek to insult you_, came a biting reply._ I mean what I say. Have you never met someone you liked a good deal better than any other of any race? For no reason than because they happened to surprise you with their sweetness, or their generosity or bravery?_

Thorin bit his tongue. If he was to put up with a prattling dagger, he wouldn't give it any more to prattle about. The fact was, he and Bilbo's sword both had the same opinion of Bilbo. Thorin was surprised by Bilbo Baggins. And as time went on between them, the surprise had only grown, into something frighteningly near endearment.

His measured silence, in the end, said more than words could. The dagger chuckled again, and Thorin was sure he felt the tremors of it through the belt.

_I see. Well, then we face the same predicament. We both care a great deal for another who we will always be at a distance from._

'And are you talking about Bilbo, or about Orcrist, you blasted letter-opener?' Thorin snapped. There was a weighty silence. Thorin slowed his walking, and heard a low rumble at his side.

_I can give you a very nasty papercut, you beastly hairy oaf._

Small as the dagger was, and incapable as it was of moving on its own, Thorin had never heard quite a small weapon sound so threatening. But its response to Thorin's gruff insult had, likewise, revealed the very thing he himself had been afraid of revealing.

'I did not know it was possible for a sword to love,' Thorin said, this time in a much gentler tone.

_Because we do not love_, the dagger said quietly._ Not the way you fleshy things do. You must be able to court and kiss, and much as your hearts may make you afraid, you always nonetheless have the ability to approach the one you love. To touch them, caress them. Be with them, if they are willing. We are unable to do that. If we are cursed with deep affection, we cannot do much more than pine, unless we are able to speak to one another_.

'And are you and Orcrist able to speak to one another?'

_In the troll hoard, he and other swords, as you saw, were stood together. I was dropped on the floor and trampled into the dirt. Until you picked up Orcrist, and Gandalf discovered me and gave me to Master Baggins, we had no sight of each other since briefly after the Goblin Wars ended._

'That is a long time to be parted,' Thorin said in sympathy. He hesistated, then lowered his hand to the hilt, in what he hoped would be understood as a comforting gesture.

The conversation was ended for a time. Thorin picked his way through underbrush, occasionally using his axe to remove obstacles. But his axe was made for fighting, not for branch-cutting, and the shape of it was unhelpful. Eventually, he came across a glade bordered by thick trees, at the other end of which was an opening blocked only by low-hanging vines and a tree trunk that had fallen directly across what, Thorin hoped, was the direction of the path. If he tried to climb over it, he was in danger of getting tangled in the vines. There was not enough room for him to go under, not without knowing what was on the other side. If he didn't go through, though, he would have to turn back the way he had come, and find a way to go around, which would take too long. He was too angry and tired to do that. So he lifted his axe.

A sweaty, tired, frustrated hour later, Thorin roared into the trees, not caring if half of the forest and all of its elves heard him. Let them come. He'd smash everything that came within punching distance.

_Your axe has a temper almost as vile as your own_, Bilbo's dagger said with a low giggle, as Thorin kicked the axe-scarred chunk of dead wood in frustration.

'I might put you to use then,' Thorin growled. 'You would not be so quick to tease then.'

_I'm surprised you cannot hear your axe_, the dagger continued, heedless of Thorin's grump. _The water ought to have made you hear us both. Or perhaps the spell only works on ELVISH weapons. Because we are in the ELVES' forest_.

Thorin drew the dagger roughly and made as if to hurl it across the glade.

_Bilbo will not be happy if you do that!_

'Bilbo doesn't even know I have you!'

_Are you sure of that? Are you sure you can withstand the disappointed, hurt expression on Master Baggin's face when he discovers you have thrown away his only sword?_

'And a lot of use you must be, little letter-opener.'

_Put me away, for goodness' sake. And I may look like a letter-opener to you daft dwarvish folk, but Master Baggins likes me just the way I am._

Thorin shoved the smug dagger back in its sheath and glared at the fallen trunk. He picked up his axe.

_Oh, just look at the pair of you_, the dagger sighed. _Roaring and glaring. I don't suppose it has occurred to you to climb over?_

'We will get caught in the vines,' Thorin said, gritting his teeth.

_And what exactly do you think a letter-opener is for, if not for cutting?_

Thorin paused. He felt the weight of his axe in his hands and tightened his grip in annoyance.

_Don't be crass._

'I did not say anything.'

_I wasn't talking to you._

Thorin warily slung his axe back in its place, and drew the dagger. The cuts and slices he had made in the wood were running diagonal to him, so he could not use them to climb, but eventually he managed to wrangle his way up to straddle the thick wooden trunk. On his way up he had had to cut through two vines, and he had to grudginly admit, the dagger was efficient.

Sitting up amongst the slimy, ropy vines, Thorin picked out which ones were in his way, and cut them down with no more than a few swinging slices. It did not take more than a few minutes. Looking down the other side, there was slightly more of a distance to jump, and Thorin had no interest in taking another tumble. So he gingerly lowered himself onto a branch jutting out three feet down from where he sat, testing how much weight it could carry before it started to groan.

_You could try throwing some of your weight down first_, the dagger said helplfully. _Your axe, for instance._

'And does he agree with this idea?' Thorin asked grudgingly, clinging to the rotted trunk.

_What makes you think your axe is male?_ the dagger asked, sounding as innocently inquisitive as possible.

'Don't change the subject.'

_I asked a perfectly reasonable question._

'If I throw my axe, I will throw you too.'

_I am very light, and make very little difference. And what will happen if you are suddenly attacked up here, alone and unprotected?_

'Then I would rather have my axe.'

Longingly, Thorin thought of the days when he did not have to discuss anything with an inanimate tool before making a simple decision. It was simply a matter of doing what he felt to be best. He wondered if the spell would last forever, until it drove him mad, or drove him to melt down Bilbo's irritating dagger and turn it into a goblet.

_If you weren't a fat dwarf, we would not be having this problem._

Or maybe a chamberpot.

'I am _not_ fat,' Thorin grumbled. Then he dropped the dagger to the ground, dropping his heavy fur and leather coat after it, to muffle the noise of outrage it made.

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**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

I have this wonderful headcanon where Thorin's axe and Sting have really catty Sex-in-the-City style bitchfights, and then Orcrist comes in all Xena-like and makes them behave like grownups.


	4. Do No Evil

_That_, the dagger huffed, _was entirely uncalled for_.

'You were the one who suggested it.'

_I suggested that it would make no difference if you dropped me. Your ten-tonne coat would have been quite sufficient._

'Or my axe.'

_Yes, or your precious darling axe._

Thorin secured the dagger back in its place on his belt. It was too small to wear on his back, just as Orcrist had been too large to wear at his waist. It could be almost entirely concealed at his side behind the fur trim of his coat.

Thorin looked about. The forest was just as dim and dark, but the trees had thinned slightly, enough to allow him to move freely. The canopy above his head was just as unrevealing as it had been since the company stepped into the forest, but the air was not as stuffy, and Thorin almost dared to hope that perhaps he was nearing the edge of the forest. But the company. Where were they? Caught by elves? Or by worse?

_You fret, my King._

Thorin snorted, and continued walking, perhaps a bit more briskly than he would have if he were more aware of his tiredness, and less aware of how satisfying it had been to toss the dagger and hear it whine in protest.

The day dragged on, and the dim green light lessened until Thorin could barely see his own feet, and was forced to stop, lest he trip or fall down another incline. The tiredness set in, and he rested his back against a tree trunk. He was torn between his body's tiredness and his worry that something would happen if he were to go to sleep. If something approached while he dozed, he had no-one to keep watch, and no-one to warn … oh.

Guardedly, Thorin relaxed himself more fully against the trunk of the tree, and pulled his coat closer about him after drawing the dagger and telling it of his intention. Of course, the danger of giving it explicit permission to talk to him was that it took it as permission to talk _endlessly_. And of all the things it wanted to talk about, Master Baggins seemed to be very near the top of the list, whether because it had noted Thorin's interest and wanted to torture him, or because it was just as interested in Bilbo as he was.

_I wish he could hear me._

Thorin fought the temptation to toss the dagger again, and never mention to Bilbo that he'd accidentally picked it up in the first place. Surely Bilbo wouldn't miss it that much.

_It would save so much trouble. He was just standing there, having a chat and I was down there, the whole time, shining my hardest, and all he had to do was glance down for a second, and maybe he could have woken you all up in time and we could have done without that horrible goblin business. And that bizarre hairless animal. I wish you could have seen it, you know. Terribly ugly thing, massive eyes, and only nine teeth. I couldn't blame poor Bilbo for shaking even as he pointed me at it_.

Thorin huffed pointedly, and crossed and uncrossed his feet.

_Of course, it made no sense to me when he didn't kill it._

Thorin pretended he wasn't listening.

_He was right there__,__ with me in hand. The perfect chance. He had no call to be chivalrous, the monster in question had not displayed the slightest inclination of chivalry__.__ In fact it had been outright vile and deceitful. Perhaps he pitied it. Or perhaps he is simply too kind_.

Thorin tried to imagine the creature in his head. The best he could manage was a naked rat with no tail. He wondered if he would meet it in his nightmares.

_It occurs to me that the one now wearing Glamdring, the Istari fellow, may have chosen Master Baggins for that reason. Any, all of you and your thirteen dwarves would not have hesitated in killing the creature. None of you would have asked it for directions out of the mountain, or even managed a game of riddles with _–

'A game of riddles?'

_Oh, so you are awake. Yes. He played a game of riddles with it_.

Thorin snorted. 'So that's what he was doing the whole time down there.'

_Well, that and running. After that stint with the goblin guard, and after the hairless big-eyed monster got upset about losing his "precious"_.

Thorin was not sure if he imagined the snarky, unsettled tone the dagger took when it mentioned the "precious".

_Anyway, as I was saying. Anybody else would have killed the creature, but he did not. And I have begun to wonder if that is why your wizard believed he would become an invaluable member of your company_.

Thorin did not answer. He could not imagine Bilbo killing, except for the one bright burning memory of nearly being beheaded, and suddenly seeing Bilbo leap out of nowhere to knock the orc straight off its feet and drive his dagger through its chest. It was a lesson he himself had learned when he first started learning the sword as a very young dwarf: take a life only when necessary, and for no other reason.

He wondered if Bilbo had had to be told, or if it was simply a gentle inclination given to him by nature.

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**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

I like the idea that Thorin, who has seen war and gnarly orcs and his grandfather's beheading, big bad majestic Thorin …

Would have nightmares about Gollum.

While Mister Baggins is like "awww" *pat pat*.

*evil cackling*


	5. Suffer No Evil

_Your singing is terrible_.

'Attercop! Lazy Lob!'

_I hope you're not expecting that magic ring to shield you as well as it hides you. They do have other senses._

Bilbo drove Orcrist like a pike through the head of a spider that came too close, and dashed off in the opposite direction as its fellows squealed and growled in guttural voices, Orcrist's tip trailing the ground as he ran.

_Not that you would listen to me. I may as well be talking to myself_.

Orcrist thought of the dagger, and reluctantly began to appreciate the patience such a blade must have to put up with a Halfling. Not that the dwarven king was much better in his own way, not on his best days. Neither weapon had been intended for a non-elvish wielder. But swords, unlike the fragile, breathing races of Middle-Earth, could last for thousands upon thousands of years and through innumerable battles, only to perish if completely obliterated, and that rarely happened. Both had expected to land in the hands of some other creature eventually. They hadn't expected trolls, at any rate, and at least Orcrist felt sure that a dwarf was preferable. Even a disgruntled, begrudging, cranky, sullen, bossy dwarf was still a dwarf, and dwarves were by nature appreciators of fine craft.

And Orcrist was a very fine blade indeed.

But now he was in the hands of a Halfling, and those hands were smaller, not like Thorin Oakinshield's, whose hands and arms and shoulders were built up by over a hundred years of swordplay.

'Go on! Go on! I will do the stinging!' Bilbo shouted, charging a writhing clump of hairy legs and globular bodies that had started to advance on a group of still-befuddled-looking dwarves. But the dwarves ran all the same, because _giant spiders_.

Bilbo's arms were already getting tired. Orcrist could feel it. But still, though he had taken off the ring and enraged a good deal of the spiders, Bilbo was taking it upon himself to protect the others. To take responsibility for them.

_Hm. Perhaps I am not in such different hands after all_.

The spiders, appearing to have decided that the dwarves and the little creature with the large sting were not worth the trouble, retreated back into the webby shadows and branches. Shortly thereafter, Orcrist felt the still-unfamiliar and strangely chilling sensation of invisibility washing over it as Bilbo slipped on the ring. Elves were aiming their arrows at the despairingly fed-up company.

These were not elves of the kind Orcrist recognized. These were wood-elves, golden-haired, eyes cold with suspicion.

_Wise of you to make yourself unseen. Your company may depend on it. Now let us hope you can keep yourself undiscovered_.

The dwarves were taken to the elves' ruler, a Sindar king whose name Orcrist remembered dimly from the short list of people Thorin would gladly feed to a dragon. Bilbo followed behind, placing some distance between himself and the group, most likely in fear of being heard. He managed to get inside the gates, and secured himself a place in the corner when the group were finally brought before the king.

After the dwarves were taken away, however, Bilbo was unable to follow. There were too many elves in the one place now, and the group was being separated, and exhaustion and fear were setting in fiercely. Orcrist hissed at Bilbo to resheath it; if Bilbo dropped Orcrist, the clatter would be heard without a doubt. Orcrist almost congratulated the Halfling out of sheer relief when Bilbo found himself a snug and isolated alcove far from the throne room, curled in on himself, arms wrapped tightly around Orcrist. It was odd, for the sword. No previous wearer had held him in such a way. But, he supposed, halflings had emotional needs. And, being parted from his true wielder as it was, Orcrist could stand to offer some comfort to this helpless creature.

For pity's sake only, of course.

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And yes, for those who have not read the book, there is a scene where Bilbo sings to the spiders to piss them off.

Also, I'm sorry for making Orcrist so prissy and arrogant. I just can't help but think that, if placed on a stand in front of a mirror, Orcrist would quite happily spend the whole day looking at itself and going "mmph. Yeah. So fine. Check out that tight little bod."


	6. Relinquish No Evil

He had eaten nothing and drunk nothing for more than two days. Anger was useful for keeping himself on his feet and moving, but only for so long. His stomach ached with hunger, and felt as if it was lined with wet dirt, and his mouth was dry.

When anger failed, wariness was all that kept him moving. He had felt a little hopeful when the forest first lightened, but he had been traversing the same dimly lit green landscape for too long now to appreciate it. He saw no other living thing; only moths and the occasional slithering suggestion of a black lizard. He heard almost no sound except for the leaves and branches moving above him, and the comments of Bilbo's dagger, though even those were growing sparse and half-hearted.

So when the sudden appearance of a guard emerged from the dark of the woods to surround him, Thorin was secretly relieved.

_Ah. Civilized company_, Bilbo's dagger sighed. Thorin wondered if it was deliberately seeking to rile him now, but said nothing in response. _At least we aren't alone with each other any more_.

The elves took his axe, and Thorin said nothing. They did not vouch to search him. Instead they herded him, one behind him, two ahead, one on either side, all prepared to restrain him if he put up a fight. They looked as silent and serene as Lord Elrond's elves had, but Thorin could see the truth. Like a coiled snake. Their hands were never far from their swords.

He kept the dagger hidden beneath the fur trim, pushed slightly further back on his belt so it did not interfere with the shape of his coat. He did not believe they hadn't noticed, but if the opportunity was there to hold onto at least one weapon, he did not intend to waste it.

The dagger itself was strangely silent as they walked, Thorin trudging along with equal shares tiredness (unavoidable) and irascibility (avoidable, but why bother?). It only took a couple of hours of travel on foot to reach the front gate of Thranduil's home.

Thorin grew more and more sullen, the closer they got.

As expected, he was brought first not to a cell or to a healing chamber, but to the halls of the king.

Thranduil, either because his eyes were sharper than those of his kin or because he had been expecting Thorin to carry a concealed weapon, commented on the dagger as soon as Thorin was brought before him.

'That does not look like a dwarvish weapon,' he said evenly. Thorin swept back the edge of his coat to place his thumbs in his belt, straightening his back. If exhaustion lost him the use of his legs, he would not slump. Not in front of this coward. The dagger, now in plain sight, snorted at Thorin's brazen gesture.

'What are you doing in my kingdom, Thorin Oakinshield?' Thranduil asked. Though he had the nerve to ask, his voice betrayed no surprise, barely a reaction at all. Merely inquisitiveness. He must have been told in advance of their approach, and schooled his features into that maddeningly blank expression Thorin remembered from a century ago.

'I am starving, and I am lost,' Thorin replied flatly. 'That is what I am doing, in your kingdom.'

Still, no expression.

'You trespass, and you bother my people at their celebrations. This is no place for a dwarf to be going for an idle stroll. I ask again. What are you doing in my kingdom?'

The question was asked slowly, as if Thranduil were speaking to a very young child, or a simpleton. Thorin felt his anger, which had up until now been in a state of ebbing away, surge back to the surface.

'I have told you, I am lost. Is it now custom to treat all strangers with such disrespect and suspicion?'

'Only those who behave suspiciously and disrespectfully,' Thranduil replied.

Thorin did not mention the others, though he was burning to know. If they were safe, then the last thing Thorin ought to do would be to mention them to the elven king. If they were not safe ... well, what would Thranduil do? He would sit in his chair, with his blank expression, and do absolutely nothing about it.

'The weapon at your side,' Thranduil said, gesturing with a small movement of his right hand. 'I would be interested to know how it came to you.'

'What about it is so interesting?'

_Lovely to know I'm appreciated. What is so interesting about me indeed_, the dagger sulked.

'It does not suit you, I think,' Thranduil said lightly.

'Do you accuse me of theft?' Thorin ground out.

'I accuse you of nothing. But it will be taken from you. You have no use for a weapon here.'

Thorin's eyes narrowed, and he closed his hand around the hilt of Bilbo's dagger.

'I would keep it, if it is all the same for you.'

Thranduil quirked his head ever so slightly. His expression did not change, but the air in the room seemed to drop by the smallest degree.

'Do you intend to use it against my people?' Thranduil asked. His face was unreadable. His meaning, his tone, was unmistakable.

'Do you intend to give me reason?' Thorin snapped back.

_Positively charming. Well done. Truly a master of wit and reason you are_.

Thorin gritted his teeth.

'Until you give me a reason to trust you, and until you tell me the truth, I will not trust you. I will house you and provide you with a warm meal, but I will not trust you.'

With a gesture from their king, two elves set about removing the dagger from Thorin. As he sat facing the wall of his cell later that evening, with his back to the door and the plate of broth and bread that had been left for him, he liked to think he did not make it easy for them.

He purposely did not think about the feeling of loss when he brought his hand to his side, and heard no familiar shimmering voice.

.

.

.

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**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

I know, I know, in the book Thorin gets captured before the others do. In making the other dwarves get captured first I was trying to stick more or less to the timeline, because all the time Thorin was supposed to be already in Thranduil's prison he's instead been traipsing around the woods with Bilbo's dagger.

Who, since it wasn't in the spider scene, didn't get given its name.

DUN DUN DUUUNNNNNNN

**PS**: It occurred to me that, in translation to a modern setting, Thorin could be regarded as hugely racist. Like, the equivalent of an adult privileged white male hating all Lebanese people because the Lebanese family across the road didn't help him move his stuff when his mansion caught fire. So forgive me if I choose to portray Thranduil as _not evil_.


End file.
